


Intimacy

by electricblueninja



Series: Conversation Starters For Couples [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel POV, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: Sometimes instructions work better than questions.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Conversation Starters For Couples [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033494
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Intimacy

"No," I answer. "Just the lightbulb. I think."

He laughs, a little puff of air against my neck, and I tighten my arms around him. It is a possessive impulse that I entirely fail to suppress. I half expect him to pull away, but he allows it, his body sinking against mine; pressing close. Most of him melts into my embrace--except, of course, for the part of him that still nudges at me, making wordless demands for attention.

"May I reciprocate, Dean?"

I try not to sound eager, but I am remembering the way that he tasted when we made our first foray into physical entanglements, back in the cabin. I liked that. I liked being able to please him. I liked being able to make him forget, at least for a moment, those thoughts he has about being unworthy and unlovable. I liked the noises that he made when he was deep in my throat, and his human instincts overwhelmed his reservations. I liked the way it felt to have part of him become part of me. 

I am an angel. I am complete. I am eternal. But I am built to fight. I was not made for sexual encounters. Sometimes angels do choose to procreate, but only through their human vessels. And obviously this male form is not capable of procreating with another male human. And all of that is beside the point, anyway. The point is that I was made to be a warrior. I was made to follow orders. I was _not_ made to feel pleasure. It is only because I inhabit a human vessel that such a thing is possible.

I look up at Dean's face. His neck. The dip of his collarbone. "Please," I add.

He has become flustered by the question. "You don't have to _ask,_ Cas," he mutters, voice hushed. "I would have thought the answer's pretty obvious."

"Consent is important, Dean."

He only grunts in reply.

I take his face in my hands, drawing him down so that I can press my lips to his.

"Tell me what you want, Dean."

He clears his throat awkwardly. "I...I don't know. I liked...I liked what you did last time."

I hum my approval as I think back on it again. "I enjoyed that too."

If he was flushed before, he is suffused with colour now. Embarrassment mottles red on his neck and shoulders.

I wonder, is it hard for him to believe that somebody enjoyed giving him pleasure? Or is it hard for him to hear because it's me? Because my vessel is a man? Or is it because we were friends before I told him that I love him?

I want to know. I want to know how he feels--what he's thinking. I want to understand him. But I know that these questions are not for now. I have more pressing matters to attend to.

It is interesting, too, that when presented with a question about what _he_ wants, for _himself,_ he does not know how to reply. He is lost. He is overwhelmed.

Perhaps the best thing I can do for him is relieve him of the burden of choice.

I reach down to his hip, letting my hand rest there with intent as I gaze into his eyes. 

"Get on your knees, Dean."

I watch the confusion and alarm cross his face. "W-what?"

I smile at him, wriggling down the mattress a little and using my free hand to tug a pillow down with me, to support my head and neck.

"You're going to get on your knees," I repeat, firmly, "over me, and you are going to put your hands against the wall, and I'll do that thing that we both liked so much again."

He hesitates, but I do not lessen my grip, and the resistance ekes out of him like the wetness starting to pearl onto my thigh. His mind may be uncertain, but his body is not.

He does as I instruct, kneeling over me. He moves slowly; carefully; looking down on me with uncertainty in his eyes.

I have the impression that being told what to do may calm him, so I grumble out an order -- "Hands on the wall."

It does seem to help, somewhat: he still looks shy and doubtful, but he follows the instruction, leaving me to gaze up at the constellations of scars mapped out on his skin; the ropey muscle, softened slightly by the excessive consumption of burgers and beer; the lines of his lower abdomen that guide my eyes down to his erection, which is thick and throbbing. 

I leave one hand on his hip, and use the other to guide his cock to my mouth. Nothing much, to start: just gently wrapping my lips around the head, and then using my tongue to cup the underside of it, savouring the faint salty flavour.

I feel him tensing up, and it is unclear whether it is good tension or bad tension, so I add a soft, appreciative hum to my movement as I shift a little against the pillow, letting my lips slide back and forth over the ridge that separates the head of his cock from the shaft.

I am rewarded with a shaky sigh. If it was not good tension before, it is certainly heading that way now. 

"Cas," Dean breathes, "are you sure...is it really okay? I don't want to hurt you."

I push him back, just a little, to free my mouth. His dick leaves my lips with a wet, messy sound that is somehow profoundly pleasing to hear. 

"Yes. I am sure. I meant it when I said I have no need of oxygen. And this vessel is only an angelic manifestation now. Jimmy is not here. So you will not do me any harm, Dean. My form is more than capable of handling you."

I allow my tone, for that last sentence, to become slightly condescending: a deliberate challenge. Dean likes to be challenged. I have, in the past, observed that he finds it arousing--I never had outright lascivious intentions when pushing him against walls and suchlike, but there were often indications of arousal when I did. The dilated pupils. The changes in the pattern of his breathing. The sensation, once or twice, of his irrefutable sexual excitement--once, memorably, when I had him pinned to the ground: a position not dissimilar to this, in fact, but with the positions reversed.

It has the desired effect. He groans, and lets his hips fall. His cock rests against my cheek, heavy with excitement.

"Are you ready?" I ask.


End file.
